


Metamorphosis

by LadySigyn214



Series: Harlequinade [6]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4141884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySigyn214/pseuds/LadySigyn214
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harley has reestablished herself and her place in the Joker's gang, and there's a new dynamic in her relationship with the Clown Prince. But when the mafia doesn't seem to want to take her seriously, she decides that a new look may be in order to go with her new identity. And where better to go about fixing that than the West Gotham Mall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metamorphosis

_“What I need is a good defense,_

_‘Cause I’m feeling like a criminal….”_

_\-- “Criminal,” Fiona Apple_

 

            _BANG!_  

Harley winced and ducked as bits of ceiling tile and plaster rained down on her head. She spat out white specks, thinking wryly that the one redeeming quality of her stupid jester hat was that it was keeping her hair free of drywall. Beside her, the Joker smirked as he popped the suppressor off the Smith and Wesson, tossed both into Dan’s open duffel, and glanced up at the hole he had just shot in the ceiling. 

            “You think they know we’re here yet?” Harley quipped.

            “Tha _t_ …is gonna leak,” the Joker chuckled as his only response, wrapping his arm further around her waist. He dug his fingers into her hip possessively as they walked further into the bank office, which was furnished in gaudy leather arm chairs and the ugliest forest green carpet Harley had ever seen. It was about an hour before closing time, and they were in a tiny branch office of one of Gotham’s major banks, tucked into a corner of the first floor of the West Gotham Mall, hardly worth notice by even the most amateur criminals. But it wasn’t the three or four safes and the ATM that the Joker was after in the first place. A few of the city’s lesser mob families had been running things in West Gotham out of this little mall office for several months, ever since they’d been ferreted out of their previous holdings by Dent last summer, and J had some business to sort out with Vittorio Bertinelli and the other mobsters who were meeting there today.  “They th _iii_ nk they can hide out here in this little closet and I… won’t… _find_ …them,” he was saying as they sauntered into the room together, Billy and the other clowns close behind and heavily armed. Harley was temporarily surprised that nobody had heard the shot and come running; but then again, between the silencer, the hum of white noise that always permeated the mall, and the fact that this _was_ a mob bank, she guessed the shoppers here were used to the odd popping sound or two coming from this direction.

“LU-cy, I’m hOOoome…,” the Joker belted as they rounded the corner into the office. The group of bosses gathered around the table in the back of the room jumped collectively, and the clowns herded most of them into a huddle before they realized what was actually happening. On either side of Vittorio Bertinelli, who had been leaning commandingly over the desk, were representatives of several smaller clans of Gotham crime royalty – mostly Italians but, behind them, standing like a statue in the corner, was a tall Russian with a stony face, most likely an envoy for the declining Dimitrov clan. His presence was the cornerstone of the mobsters’ meeting today, the Joker had told them during the drive to the mall. The Bertinelli crime family, once the strongest and most influential of the Cosa Nostra in Gotham and one of the strongest in all of Gotham, had been struggling to regain ground in this new era that was being dominated by true Italian families like the Falcone and Maroni set. The Joker had gotten wind that Bertinelli was attempting to reassert his family’s authority – by making a tenuous partnership with the Dimitrovs, whose ongoing feud with the Maronis was nothing if not legendary. Harley clung closer to the Joker, feeling for the bulge of her revolver in his coat. Sicilian, Russian, whatever; she didn’t like the way any of them were looking at her. She had only had one significant encounter with the mafia in her adult life – there had been a day or so when Arkham had been crawling with Falcone’s lackeys, there for mysterious meetings with Dr. Arkham that had only served to further muddle hospital policy – and she already hated them. They were greasy, lecherous pigs in tacky Italian suits, and they all smelled like too much cologne and hair gel.  Like Mike the Situation in tuxedos. She especially didn’t like Vittorio himself; he was young, one of the youngest dons Gotham had seen in a long time, and he was quite full of himself as a result.  And just like every other guy in the room, he was determined to spend the entire encounter slowly peeling off Harley’s clown suit with his eyes.  He was doing it right now. God, she wanted rid of this stupid costume. So much.

            “Well,” Vittorio smirked, still standing at the table in defiance of the clowns and their machine guns.  “Lookie lookie, boys.  The Clown Prince himself has… _deigned_ to grace us with his presence.  To what do we owe the honor, your Highness?” 

            “Cut the _crap_ , Tori,” the Joker growled.  “You know why we’re here. Oh – and if you don’t stop _ogling_ the _lady_ , I’m gonna show you my disappearing knife trick.”  He wiggled his blade under Bertinelli’s nose as he spoke. Harley stood up a little straighter at the Joker’s side and sneered smugly. It was a pleasant change to have J being possessive like this, and she could see it rattled a couple of Bertinelli’s cohorts. Vittorio himself was holding his hands out in a gesture of amused defense.

            “Hey, hey, no need, no need! Just admirin’ your taste, you should take it as a compliment!”  Harley narrowed her eyes at him as he grinned cheekily and leaned over the table, propping himself up on his elbows. “Say, sweetheart, what’s a little _mignotta_ like you doin’ with a nutjob like this guy, eh?” Harley stiffened immediately; if he was under the impression that she would take it as a term of endearment, he was sadly mistaken. She could never be accused of being bilingual, but thanks to Corinna in 9 th grade, she had learned every vulgar Italian slang term she had ever needed to know. But he had also called J a nutjob, and that pissed her off quicker than anybody calling her a whore in any language. The Joker was already moving toward Bertinelli with his knife, a black look on his face, but for once Harley was quicker. She ripped Dirty Harriet from its hiding place inside the Joker’s coat and pointed it straight at the mafioso’s forehead.

            “Say it again, _finocchio_.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Joker raise an eyebrow and regard her with amusement. Vittorio crossed his eyes to look at the gun and then threw himself back from the table, laughing uproariously.

            “Ha!  Cute, girly, very cute!  Lookit that, boys, she knows a little Italiano! That’s a feisty little dame you got there, Joker.” Harley brought her other hand up to the revolver and aimed first at Bertinelli’s head, then after a moment’s thought, at his crotch.

            “Shut up!”

            “Listen, sweetheart,” Vittorio began between laughs. “No offense, but what’re you gonna do with that thing, anyway?  You know how to use it?  Can you aim?” He chuckled smugly as he stepped back away from the desk and leaned against the wall with his companions. “You’re cute, honey, but you’re not all that imposin’.” Beside him, an older man with more hair gel than should be legal and a huge gold pinkie ring sneered at her.

            “Just a tramp in a clown suit,” he grinned, and the other mobsters joined in his laughter. Even the stone-faced Russian cracked a smile. Harley swung the revolver to aim at the older man; a purple gloved hand caught the gun in mid-swing.

            “Uh, Harl…” the Joker said softly, “why don’t you go get some _fresh air_ , hmm?”  He wrenched the gun from her grasp as he forcefully escorted her back to the door.  “Let’s let the boys talk business for a while,” he sang, looking back over his shoulder to make sure the mobsters heard it.  Harley yanked the gun back out of his hands and glared at him; he pushed her further out the door of the bank office.  Then he leaned down to whisper in her ear.  “I need ‘em alive right now, Harl. Alive, and not _bleeding_ from the _balls_. Ye _t_. Don’t worry. I’ll let you kill ‘em later.  Find something to amuse yourself until then.”  He nodded to elicit her agreement, and she stuck out her lip but made no further protest.  The Joker gave her a light shove and smacked her softly on the backside as she tumbled out of the room.  Then he slammed the door behind her.

            _Tramp in a clown suit, hmm?_ Harley thought as she stormed off out of the bank, catching herself just in time to avoid walking right out into the trickle of shoppers leaving the mall for the night. _Like any of them are dressed any better_ , she mentally grumbled as she looked out at the row of stores from behind a fake plant. They looked like the cast of Jersey Shore dressed up as their grandfathers for Halloween. _Guidos_. She hated Guidos. Well, she would show them. And besides… she had changed. Maybe it was time the costume changed to match.

She had thought for a while that the jester hat was _completely_ ridiculous. And maybe the bodysuit _was_ still a bit comic-strip villainess, even with the modifications…. She’d spent the last couple days contemplating what she could do to fix it – in light of her decision to make Being Harley Quinn a fact of her life instead of an act, she’d concluded that her wardrobe had to look like a real wardrobe instead of a costume. That was clear. She’d had several vague ideas floating around her head. But this was the last straw. If the cat suit costume was stupid enough to make her holding a gun unimposing, then she would just have to find an outfit that would change that. Right _NOW_.

            She _was_ in a mall, wasn’t she?

            Peeking out from behind the plant, she looked around and took in all the possibilities. Her brain started compiling a mental checklist. “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “What outfit says, ‘While I’m tiny, have nice breasts, and a set of really great legs, I’m also a bad-ass criminal with a doctorate in psychology, a great right hook, and a Magnum that can take off your face’? That’s a complicated impression to achieve with just clothes….” She scanned the available stores, until suddenly her eyes fell on something perfect for the job at hand – Hot Topic. And right beside it was a Journeys shoe store, with a window full of Converse high-tops. “Bingo,” she murmured, already making a shopping list in her head. The bank was at the end of this wing of the mall, five or six doors down from the big domed area that held the food court up top and the fountain and benches down below. Hot Topic was the last store before the straight row of shops opened up into the round court. Harley cocked her gun and strode purposefully across to it, jerking off the jester hat and tossing it in the trash as she went.  She could get away with wearing the red and black cat suit in Hot Topic. The hat was another story. Even the Hot Topic shoppers wouldn’t be that brave outside of Comic-Con.

            It was forty-five minutes until closing, but that was more than Harley needed. It was like the whole back right corner of the store was stocked to suit her needs. She made a quick circuit of the room, grabbing everything she could carry that matched her color scheme, and headed back toward the door with an armful of red and black fabric, lace, and chains. As she passed the counter, she paused, dumping her pile of clothes so she could look through some nail decals beside the register. The heavily-pierced clerk looked her over as he picked up and began to scan the items, but it was more of a look of appreciation of her taste than of ridicule. Then he glanced up cheerily.

            “Oooh-kay, that’ll be… $178 and… forty c—” He blanched as Harley leveled the gun with his forehead.

            “You wanna ring that up again, sweetie?”

* * *

 

About forty minutes later, Harley left the Visions, Ink. tattoo parlor with its three employees well rattled, their needles held up defensively as they watched her scamper off through the mall with her Hot Topic and Journeys bags and a set of tattoo after-care products under her arm. She had never really considered body art before – needles had never exactly been her strong point – but there was something about a tattoo, she had decided, that made a person look so much more …serious about whatever it was they were doing. Oh, sure, she’d be sore tomorrow. Sore as hell. And she wasn’t entirely enthused at the prospects of trying to take care of her new artwork alongside running and hiding and shooting and generally being a criminal. But that wasn’t currently the point. The point was putting the “tramp-in-a-clown-suit” out of everyone’s minds. So at present, told herself she could think about pain and moisturizer and how she was going to sleep later. At present, she just savored the hot tingling in her skin and imagined everyone’s reactions as she ran for the nearest ladies’ room to change into the rest of her new look.

* * *

 

Vittorio Bertinelli was trying very hard not to whimper like a little girl. The Joker had him pinned against the doorframe of the bank office, knife poised delicately in the corner of his mouth, gloved fingers digging into the back of his neck. Across the room, Billy and Dan had the other mobsters cornered against the filing cabinets. It had gone well for a while. It really had. They’d had a (marginally) civil discussion about exactly where the lines were being drawn in the sands of Gotham’s organized crime families, they had each entertained the other’s notions about how any power plays against the Falcones would go, and they had managed to avoid anyone getting shot in the process. A pretty impressive result for a room full of as many convicted felons as this one was. But the negotiations had gone _very_ sour _very_ quickly as soon as Vittorio had mentioned Harley again. He almost didn’t realize what had happened. Just one little sideways comment about needing a feisty little henchwoman like that himself, and he’d found himself eating the edge of a switchblade. …Of course, in retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have followed the henchwoman statement by asking if the Joker picked her up off the street in Jersey or if there was a Dames-R-Us somewhere where he could buy one a little classier. Bertinelli tried not to lick the edge of the knife accidentally. Nope. Definitely should not have said that last part. He’d have to remember all this for future reference, though (if he managed to not die tonight) – that chick was something of an Achilles heel for the Joker, a very defined point of weakness – and knowing a killer’s weaknesses could be very useful.

            “…So… the don sends his _fav_ orite hit man to take care of me,” the Joker was saying, deep in the middle of one of his trademark scar stories.  “I begged the guy.  I said, ‘Please, please don’t kill me!’  And he comes at me with the knife.  And he says, ‘Oh, don’t worry!  I’m not going to kill you!  In fact, I’m gonna make you so happy, you’ll never stop SMILING!’  _Aaaand_ —“  Both Bertinelli and the Joker jumped as a shot rang out and the lintel above their heads disintegrated into a shower of splinters.  Taking advantage of the distraction, Vittorio wiggled out of the Joker’s grasp and wiped at his cheek; the knife had nicked him slightly as he had jerked away, and he covered the wound with shaky fingertips. He glanced nervously at the Joker, hoping that that was the only injury he was going to receive today.  He needn’t have worried.  The Joker was staring blankly at the source of the gunshot, knife hanging limp in his purple gloved hand. Vittorio followed his gaze, as did the other mobsters, and his jaw dropped.

            “Tramp in a clown suit, huh?”

            Harley Quinn stood in the entryway of the bank office, the Magnum in her hand still pointed up at the shattered doorframe. The cat suit was gone.  In its place…. Well, this was a Harley that none of them had quite been expecting to see. Vittorio looked her over, from the ground up, trying to take it all in. Harley had donned an unmatched pair of new Converse high-tops, one black and one red. Rising out of the Chucks were a pair of split leg skinny jeans, taken from the New Arrivals rack at Hot Topic; the right leg was black, while the left was a bloody, liquid red. They hugged her muscular gymnast’s legs to perfection, and the black leather belt with metal studs, hanging at a jaunty slant like a gunslinger’s holster, made her hips look…. Vittorio had to make a conscious effort not to lick his lips. The Joker might be distracted at the moment, but looking at Harley like _that_ in his presence would almost certainly result in instant death. He jerked his eyes up to avoid such a result, but that didn’t make him any safer. Harley’s torso was strapped into a tightly-laced black leather corset; underneath was a red tank with a plunging neckline that only offered the _barest_ coverage for her cleavage.  Her left arm was covered from the elbow down to the knuckles in a black mesh arm sock with tiny red studs; the right hand was sheathed in a red and black striped leather fingerless glove. Her blonde hair was pulled to each side in loose pigtails, and her makeup had been re-done to exactly match the Joker’s; white face, black circles around her bright blue eyes, and vibrant red lips, with the lipstick streaked up her cheeks in a grotesque Joker smile. The only noticeable difference in the facepaint was a single streak of black that stretched down her face from her right eye like a teardrop. And topping it all off, shining black on her left arm like wet paint, was a fresh tattoo – three black diamonds, nestled together in a cluster. It was the pattern that had adorned the leg of her cat suit, the only remnant of the previous Harley that remained. Harley watched the reactions of everyone in the office. Then she smiled her most ravishing smile and took a slow step toward the gaping men in the doorway. Vittorio unwittingly took a step back. 

            “What’s the mattah, _succhiatore_?” Harley taunted, her Jersey accent purposefully thickening, waving the revolver menacingly.  “No more nicknames for me?  _Gatto_ got ya tongue?”  Grinning wickedly, she leveled the gun with his forehead.  “Am I imposing now?” Her accent was suddenly gone, and so was any hint of teasing or hilarity in her eyes. Vittorio gulped.

            “Uh… Harl?”  The interruption was soft, almost uncertain, but everyone stopped immediately and looked at the Joker anyway. His face was unreadable as he stepped in front of Harley, simultaneously blocking her shot and staring her down like a territorial dog. She stuck out her lip.

           “Aw, come on, Puddin’… I thought you said I could shoot them!  You’re blocking the shot!”  For a moment, the Joker didn’t answer. Then without warning, he moved like lightning and threw his arms around her, pinning the gun down at her side.

            “I _told_ you not to  call me that!” he hissed into her ear. To punctuate his command, he twisted her arm; she winced, but managed to keep her mouth shut. The Joker nodded his approval. “Now,” he rumbled, still in her ear but loudly enough for the rest to hear. “I’m still gonna let you shoot them, but _fiiiiirst_ , I have to… _take_ it all _in_.  I’ve gotta… _figure out_ this new you!” He met her eyes stiffly, ensuring that she would stay still. Then he slowly let go of her and began a careful circuit around her, his sharp, dark eyes drinking her in, not missing a single detail. This… what was this? The Joker narrowed his eyes as he looked her over, giving him an air of frightening scrutiny; but internally, he was grinning. After all…this was his masterpiece.

It had _fiiiinally_ happened, he thought. He hadn’t been so sure about it that night on Straig Street when she’d driven up in the ‘Vette, talking all that garbage about _change_ and the _New_ _Her_ …. He’d been cautiously optimistic but still uncertain the next morning when she’d offered (surprisingly helpful) input in his discussion with Billy about their plans for Gotham’s mob scene. But this… He let his eyes linger a moment on her chest, and gave her choice of corset the mental Two Thumbs Up. This… this was everything he’d been working toward and then some. Way more than he had ever expected. She had finally cracked. Caved. Made the transition. And of her own volition, too. He had barely needed to lift a finger, and here she was – it couldn’t have been better if she were _gift_ wrapped. _Ooo_ , and wouldn’t he have fun _unwrapping_ her…. Gradually, he allowed the smile to seep from his brain to his face. Quickstepping, he moved around behind Harley’s back. The pigtails left her neck and much of her shoulder blades exposed, and the Joker felt his internal gauges go from mildly impressed to hungry in about two seconds. This time, he didn’t bother hiding it. He shoved both of his gloves into the voluminous pockets of his overcoat and slid his bare hands over her shoulders, relishing the way she jumped under the unexpectedly soft strokes. Let her enjoy it, he chuckled mentally. Sometimes, the little hot mess needed a … _firm hand_ , but right now, he could afford to let her get a little _comfortable_. A little reward for her labors.

As he stroked her shoulders, his fingertips brushed the tip of the uppermost diamond in her tattoo, and she winced, her breath suddenly becoming a sharp hiss, but – the Joker made careful note – she didn’t jerk away or whine. The Joker made another checkmark on her imaginary scoreboard. Full of surprises, this new Harley Quinn. Carefully, he held out his ring finger and, gently, almost tenderly, he traced the outlines of the tattoo with the barest edge of the digit. It was still raised, still wet, and he wondered absently if she planned to put the bandage back on it after she was done proving her criminal balls to the Mafia. But more than that… he wondered how much of the satisfaction he was feeling he should let show on his face. This was the bow on top of the present. If he’d had any doubts about the permanence of her metamorphosis from clingy henchwoman to criminal vixen, this settled them. She hadn’t been faking, and she hadn’t been half-hearted. She meant to make this Harley the _true_ Harley, and she’d written it permanently on her skin.

And if anyone knew anything about writing your identity on your skin… it was him.

The Joker’s face split into a grin that oozed with sinister hilarity, and the first few chuckles began escaping his throat. He ran his finger down Harley’s spine, and the chuckles turned to real laughter as he felt Harley shiver beneath his touch.  “The, ah… _new… Harley… Quinn_ ,” he mumbled through giggles. Harley turned her head slightly to look at him.

            “Well actually, if you count all the looks I’ve had, it’s ‘the new, new, new Harley Quinn’.”  And she grinned up at him.  The Joker looked at her blankly for a moment, and then nearly doubled over with hysterical cackles as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

            “Okay,” he laughed as he buried his chin in her neck. “Okay, you win! Go ahead and shoot ‘em! All except Tori and Dimitrov over there, I’m gonna need them later. But the rest… fair game!” He motioned to Billy, who moved into position beside Harley with his machine gun.

            “Yes, Sir!” Harley beamed, mimicking a salute. Then she opened fire.

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, Harley and the Joker were scrambling into the waiting van behind the mall, police sirens ringing in their ears.  The Joker grabbed Harley by the hips to hoist her up through the vehicle’s back doors, thankful enough for the new costume that he didn’t mind being a _little_ helpful– jeans were _soooo_ much easier to grab onto than a slick polyester cat suit. _Easier to get off her too, I bet,_ he thought with the beginnings of a grin. He’d have to see about that when they got back to the club. He guessed he’d have to be careful with that new tat on her arm, _buuuttt_ … the rest of her was fair game. His eyes traced the soft little upside-down heart shape her butt made in the new jeans, savoring the way it hardened and then softened again she tensed her legs. It was _fantastic_. So much so that he allowed himself a quick squeeze of her hips before putting her down in the back of the van. As he did, he heard her wince and groan a little, and she unintentionally jerked away from his hands.  He let go, swung himself up into the van after her, and flopped down beside her as Dan slammed the doors and Peter floored the gas.He watched her cautiously. Harley was holding her hand over the inside of her pelvis, just above her right front pocket, nursing what he assumed was some kind of injury. “Ah, …what’s the problem, Harl?” the Joker quizzed, feigning concern. “I, ah… I don’t think I grabbed you _that_ hard.” And he gave her a raised eyebrow as he settled in against the wall of the van. Harley giggled at him.

            “You didn’t. You just found my other tattoo.”  The Joker raised both eyebrows this time.

            “There’s another one?” A nod, a smirk. “ _There_?” he sneered. “Ah, I don’t mean to be _rude_ , Harl, but I think you missed criminal _vix_ en and landed on tramp stamp with that one.”

“It’s not a tramp stamp, J,” Harley replied glibly.

“Well…what is it?” the Joker prodded, this time genuinely curious.

            “Ha,” Harley smirked, primly depositing both of her legs in his lap. “Wait ‘til we get home and you’ll find out.” She looked at him expectantly until he draped his hands over her thighs; then she walked her fingers like spiders up over the lapels of his purple coat, a flirtatious smile stretching across her face. The Joker regarded her for a moment, weighing his options. On the one hand, he was in the back of the van racing across Gotham, with a crew of goons in close quarters, watching. On the other hand…. He grumbled at himself. Her _thigh_ happened to be under the other hand, and it felt _incredible_. He allowed himself a moment of self-loathing. Then he leaned in for a kiss.

At that exact moment, Peter turned a sharp corner, flinging all the van’s passengers against the left wall. The Joker landed on top of Harley, at the bottom of a pile of goons and weapons, and he was pretty sure he had a big smear of her new white makeup down the front of his coat. Billy and the others scrambled to get off the boss before he got pissed and started yelling. But as the van righted itself and Harley crawled out from under him, wincing and nursing both tattoos, the Joker was already laughing. And making no pretense of trying to get it under control, he grabbed Harley around the waist and dragged her over into his lap. It wasn’t long before she was laughing along with him.

* * *

 

By the time the Joker closed the suite door behind him well after midnight, the comedy club was mostly quiet. Dan was snoring facedown on a couch in the lobby, his face squished against the armrest and drool congealing on the upholstery; the Joker had left Peter sitting across from him, content to stay up on guard duty as long as he had his box of Cheez-Its and a two-liter of soda to keep him company. Dionté was asleep in a dressing room, as inscrutably silent as he was when awake. Billy was dozing in the green room. And Bobby or Rob or whatever the hell he was… well, he hadn’t broken anything or had a paranoid delusion yet tonight, which had to count for something. That was what the Joker was telling himself, anyway.

He had almost forgotten his earlier anticipation when he looked up and realized that Harley was standing at the mirror, taping down the edges of the bandage she’d just put on her diamond tattoo. For a moment, it made him pause. It was the first time Harley had been back in the suite since Halloween – the first time Billy had let her out of his careful watch – and the Joker stayed in the doorway for a minute or two, just looking at her. Contemplating her. She had stripped down to just the red tank top and panties, and the shoe-shaped bruise he had left on her hip four days ago was painfully visible. When she turned to the dresser to find the lid for the tattoo cream, he could see another just like it peeking out from under the tank top next to her spine. Her arms were splotched with them like faded splashes of watercolor, all the shades of the healing rainbow. The marks on her neck from his fingers had mostly faded, but just under her ears, he could make out a couple of tiny brown crescent shapes that remained. And then, of course, there was her face, which at the moment was happily hidden by white greasepaint. The makeup was small comfort. He knew what was underneath it. He wondered how many of the square bruises were still visible, and how many had faded into each other. He wondered if the swelling going down meant everything was healing. He wondered if her cheekbones still hurt. And then he wondered why he was actually _caring_. Quietly, he shucked off his wool coat and slipped it onto the back of a chair by the door; he pulled off his suit coat, vest, and tie, dropped them in the seat, and started unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. That’s when he saw the scratches.

The Joker stopped in mid motion. His right wrist was covered in tiny red scratch marks – almost healed, but evident enough that he immediately recognized them for what they were. Harley’s nail marks. Where she had scratched him when she was trying to get loose. _When she was trying not to die because you were choking her,_ a faint whisper added. The Joker felt a growl bubbling up deep in his throat. Smothering it, he jerked both cuffs open and yanked his shirt off, wadding up the patterned fabric and slinging it onto the pile.

“J?”

He looked up through tangles of hair. Harley had heard him when he ripped the shirt off and was now staring at him quizzically, a tube of ointment in one hand and gauze in the other.

“What?” he mumbled, but the growl had left his voice. Harley smiled at him, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

“You scared me for a sec. I didn’t even know you were in here.” She gathered up her tattoo care supplies and shoved them into her duffel bag in the corner. “I was just trying to decide how I’m going to get any sleep tonight with this thing on my arm. Not exactly something I considered when I got it. But hey, at least I got it covered so I won’t get an infection from those nasty sheets. And speaking of, J,” she began, pulling off the tank top and tossing it into her own clothing pile, “can we possibly get some new sheets? Pretty please? I feel like I’m sleeping on bubonic plague.”

The Joker looked her over again as he pried off his shoes and socks. Normally he would have been locked on the cleavage swelling out of her black lace bra. Tonight all he could think was that the bruises he’d left on her ribs were worse than he’d thought. All the rest were starting to lighten to green and brown already. These were still purple. _How did I manage to NOT break a rib under all that?_ he thought. Then he realized that she had asked him a question.

“Hmm?” he murmured.

“Sheets,” Harley supplied, and he shook his head to rouse himself.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure,” he answered blandly. Then he heard how… _exposed_ his voice sounded and forced himself back into conversation mode. “Sure thing, _Harl_ ,” he sing-songed. “Tomorrow morning, after we take the kids to the soccer game, we’ll drive down to Pottery Barn and pick out a set.” And he raised his eyebrows wryly. Harley giggled, playfully smacking at his arm.

“I mean it, J, they’re filthy. We should have grabbed a set from Bed, Bath, and Beyond before we left the mall.”

“Ah, would that be _before_ or _after_ prying open the security gate and evading Gotham PD?” His voice was laden with sarcasm, but he walked around behind her and slid his arms around her waist as he said it. “Face it, Harl, dirty sheets may be a part of the criminal lifestyle you’ll have to get used to.” Harley turned around in his arms and grabbed him by the biceps, holding him at arm’s length.

“A person can be complacent with many things in life, J, but never dirty sheets.” She widened her blue eyes in mock seriousness, and he snorted with laughter in spite of himself. “Come on, J,” she smiled. “Let’s go to bed. On the dirty sheets.” She let go of him and headed toward the bed, but he caught her arm and stopped her.

“ _Ah_ …ta ta ta…not so fast, missy,” he grinned. “I beLIEVE you promised me a little _art_ exhibition this evening….” And he raised both eyebrows, chewing on his scars for a moment before lowering his gaze to her waist. The white square of bandage covering her second tattoo stuck out of the lace band of her panties like a blank playing card, and the Joker reached down to trace the edges of it with his fingertip, noting how sharply Harley sucked in her breath at his touch. He put on his most child-like face. “Can I open my present now, Miss Harley?? Can I? Hmmm??” And he tucked his finger under the edge of the underwear and tugged insistently. Harley rolled her eyes softly.

“Ugh, that means I’ll have to re-tape it—”

“ _Yeeaaahh_ , yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah. You, ah, you can do that. Easy. Come on.” The Joker’s voice was descending to a slow rumble, and he began picking at the edges of the tape with a dirty, paint-caked fingernail. Harley shooed his hand away.

“Okay, okay, let me do it. Your nails are nasty, I’ll catch a flesh eating disease or something,” she scolded, but she was grinning. It took her a few seconds to get the edge up on the tape; then she slowly peeled it away from her skin and pulled the bandage outward, not completely removing it but taking it down far enough that the Joker could see what was underneath. When he did, a dark grin split his face.

It _was_ a playing card. A joker, to be precise. It had been done in black and white, a simple, stylized joker face in the Italian harlequin style, with a floppy hat and a pointy-nosed Renaissance mask in deep black. But there was one small pop of color – the character’s mouth was painted with a smear of bright red that formed a sinister, bloody smile. And in the bottom corner, still almost hidden by the bandage, was a slim art-deco style letter J. The Joker contained a cackle that was threatening to escape his throat. It just wouldn’t _do_ to show that much _enthusiasm_. But internally, he was giggling like a kid. A kid who had just been let loose in Toys-R-Us with an empty cart and a blank check. He could have _danced_. This was better than… anything he’d expected out of her, actually. Better by a long shot. She had put his  face on her body. Permanently. Willingly, of her own volition. Had he really managed to transform her so completely in just a few months? So completely that he no longer had to keep modifying her _himself_ , that she was doing the work for him? Hmph. Apparently. He found himself thinking again that this was _NOT_ the Harley Quinn he’d been dragging along a few days ago. This was an entirely different _species_. Something had happened, maybe something in the wake of the Halloween fiasco, who cared. The specifics didn’t matter. But whatever it was, it was working in his favor.

“Seen enough?” Harley grinned, making as if to cover the tattoo again. The Joker stopped her, pulling the bandage back away from her body.

“Ah, I actually haven’t. I think I need the… special, extended showing.” He peeled more of the tape. “I _heard_ …that fresh air…is _good_ for these things. Whaddya say we tes _t_ that out… Hmm?” As he spoke, he slid his fingers down her hips and under the edges of her panties, slipping them down with surgical precision and letting them fall to her feet. Then he tugged the bandage the rest of the way off. Harley opened her mouth to protest and suddenly found it shut again by the Joker’s lips. It was a kiss that made clear there was going to be no more discussion on the matter, and as she felt him grope around her back to unhook her bra, she grudgingly acquiesced. Let him go for now, she thought. She could always tape it back later if it still needed the bandage. Then he had his hands in her hair, pulling out her pigtails, and she wondered momentarily if she’d be able to find both hair bands in the morning; but after another minute or two, she wasn’t doing much wondering about anything.

“ _A broch_!” she hissed abruptly, pulling away. The Joker looked miffed.

“What?” he barked. Harley looked down at the tattoo, wincing.

“I dunno if this is gonna work, J – this ink is in a very unfortunate place if we’re going to be doing any significant bumping into each other tonight.”

“Oh, is _that_ what the kids are calling it now?” the Joker sneered, and he moved in to recommence the kiss.

“But J—”

“Mmmh, don’t be such a _sis_ sy,” the Joker grumbled, and weaving his fingers into her hair, he jerked her face back up to his. Harley tried to protest for just a moment – he was kissing her with such ferocity that she was having trouble getting air – but she eventually let him go and took the opportunity to get his pants and shorts off. If he thought she was going to be the only person naked in this equation, he was mistaken. She let it go on until he had pushed her all the way back to the edge of the bed; then she abruptly jerked his hands out of her hair and held him by his wrists.

“Well, if _that’s_ how it’s going to be,” she began, a dark smile creeping over her face, “then I most definitely get to be on top.” And before the Joker could react to her words, she shoved him hard onto the bed, where he landed with a blank look of surprise.

By the time she had climbed on top of him, his surprise had turned into gales of laughter.

Of course, Harley eventually put a stop to that, too.


End file.
